


Guilt

by Junket (orphan_account)



Category: The Following
Genre: Angst, Gen, Past Non-Con, may eventually turn into Maxton or Hardston
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Junket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill from the kink meme: http://kink-following.livejournal.com/754.html?thread=98034#t98034</p><p>While Ryan and his niece are gallivanting about trying to find Joe, Mike is struggling to keep the FBI investigation on point, and getting little help from his colleagues. So Mike is completely on his own when Joe Carroll's people find where he lives. After his rescue by the FBI Mike is placed in protective custody, and Ryan finally notices Mike isn't at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was amazing, how clueless he'd been before, Mike Weston mulled as he stared at the empty beer bottles on the coffee table, the hotel room spinning beyond the couch. He didn't bother moving as he lay sideways, head on his leather jacket, blind to whatever nonsense was playing on the television. He doubted he could focus on the TV even if he tried - not when a new understanding of Joe Carroll's power was washing through his overwrought mind, the last vestiges of the drugs making the thoughts gargantuan in import.

Joe's power over others had always confounded him, even after years of obsessive study. Sure, Mike understood charisma and hero worship like any kid with older brothers, but with Carroll it wasn't that simple. Why did the followers let that man mold them into disposable tools, let him utterly destroy their lives? For what? A cheap thrill? Belonging?  
  
Mike had always written it off as craziness. Broken, crazy people doing broken, crazy things. But now they didn't seem so insane. Mike felt his breath quicken, remembering clammy hands on his neck, and Agent Quinn's death rattle as he bled out on the carpet. Standing over them were the Followers, and Mike wanted to rip their Chesire grins off their faces with his bare hands, bash their skulls in for not caring about lives worth every bit...no, _more_ , than their own.  
  
Mike had to settle for wincing instead, carefully sitting up to reach for the last beer. His hand was unsteady, and he knocked over one of the empty bottles in the process.  
  
Since the kidnapping the rage hadn't stopped burning in his gut, roaring with no place to go. And frankly the anger was starting to scare him. He'd been angry before, but he'd never been consumed by it, to the point that he felt different. A new person. A person he didn't understand, and couldn't predict.  
  
He downed the last of the beer and swallowed, letting the bitter alcohol trickle down his throat. At least the rage brought understanding. Because Mike suspected that if at that very moment, some stranger like Joe had magically offered him a solution....he might not be able to say no.  
  
Because Mike wanted them dead. Every last sociopathic sonofabitch wiped off the map, that was the only thing he could think of that might bring relief. And that insane, monstrous gift was something he could see selling his soul for.  
  
And what would that lead to? He'd be as broken as any of those worthless nutjobs he profiled at work.  
  
Mike let the empty bottle drop from his hand onto the carpet, rolling into the couch as the world got fuzzier.  
  
He needed to stop thinking so much.  
  
Tonight he wasn't worth anything, and he was embracing that. Tomorrow, maybe he'd be better.

 

 

Ryan couldn't help scanning the crowd as he walked to the new crime scene, always wondering if he'd glimpse a face he recognized. He found it extremely disheartening that he now had to scan the FBI agents as well, hoping for some tell, some clue they might be the leak. Ever since he'd suspected Joe had infiltrated the investigation, he'd been avoiding the FBI almost completely, but not this time. Not when a kill was this fresh, and there were so many clues to be missed.  
  
"Well you've been AWOL," Mendez said, walking his way as she took blue gloves off, warily eying the cordon of gawkers same as him.  
  
"I do have a normal job, remember that?"  
  
"Oh yeah, that fun cover job you don't need since you still have book funds coming in?"

"Yeah. That one."

Mendez smirked a little, then motioned for him to follow. "We could use you today, come on."  
  
As Ryan followed to the body, he couldn't help hoping Weston wouldn't be there. He liked the kid, but frankly the kicked puppy dog looks and dirty glares were starting to wear on him. The snitty comments of late weren't helping either.  
  
It wasn't until he had looked over the body and given up on clues in frustration that he realized Mike was no-where to be seen. "Hey, where's Weston," he asked Mendez, who was crouched and poking into the skull fragment with her finger.  
  
"He's undercover right now," she said idly, squinting. "Deep cover, actually, we got a lead in the Northwest."  
  
"Mike is undercover," Ryan repeated incredulously, then barked a laugh.  
  
"What?" Mendez asked, looking at him curiously.  
  
"Oh, I dunno, guess he doesn't seem like the cloak and dagger type," Ryan said, unable to keep amusement off his face. "But hey, good for him. Keep that up and he'll be able to join the CIA."  
  
Mendez glared. "I'm pretty sure he'd rather shoot himself."

 

 

"I really don't know why you like him so much," Max said, typing away with that genius focus of hers. "That day he came to harass me I found him..."  
  
"Hm," Ryan asked over his shoulder, looking through his cabinets for saltines.  
  
"Patronizing," Maxine said with finality, viciously satisfied with her word choice.  
  
"Lots of adjectives apply to the kid," Ryan said, grabbing the crackers. "Saved my life though." He remembered too late the secret vodka stash on the top shelf, and hurriedly shut the cabinet; when he glanced back Max was thankfully still typing. He'd need to move that later.  
  
Ryan flopped in front of the television while he unscrewed the peanut butter jar, flipping through the channels for some relevant news between the talk show banality. He'd gone three news stations when he realized the typing had stopped.  
  
More interestingly, Max was frowning.  
  
"Find something?"  
  
"Ryan..." the voice was hushed, and Ryan was on his feet instantly, around the desk, not liking the shock on her face.  
  
"Tell me," he said, leaning in.  
  
"He's not undercover. He's in protective custody."  
  
On the screen was what looked like a medical report for Weston. "What the hell happened?" Ryan asked, trying to scan the words before Max scrolled down.  
  
"He must've been a part of that bad operation last week, where the three agents got killed," Maxine said quietly. "The timing fits."  
  
She clicked a file of attachments, and badly-lit photographs popped up on the screen, clinical records of injuries. It was Mike, except it wasn't. Not normal Mike. He wasn't swollen like after his fight with Charlie, but there were purple bruises forming around his neck, pictures of lacerations and ligature marks. His normally excited blue eyes were exhausted and bloodshot, and...dead seeming. A look Ryan hadn't seen since Deborah.  
  
"Ryan."  
  
At her tone Ryan gave Max a worried look, then followed her glance to the bottom of the screen.  
  
 _Injuries consistent with sexual assault. Assault denied by patient. No rape kit administered._  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ, where's my phone," Ryan muttered, slapping at his pockets.

 

 

"I wanna know where he is, _now,_ " Ryan demanded, talking with Mendez outside the police station.  
  
Mendez's hard eyes drilled into his own, calculating. "He's safe, Mister Hardy, that's all you need to know." 

"He was hurt, why didn't somebody tell me?"

"Wasn't sure you cared, frankly," and Ryan wished she would morph into a man so he could throw her against a wall and force her to listen. Like he had with Mike, actually. He remembered how Mike had flinched, completely unwilling to defend himself, and was hit by an unexpected flood of guilt. He ran his hand through his hair, still reeling about the fact that Mike hadn't told him.  
  
When he glanced back at Mendez he saw her cold veneer dropped, her own frustration obvious. She glanced around for eavesdroppers and leaned in. "Alright, fine, just stop making that guilty face, will ya? That debacle last week, with the SWAT team? We've kept it classified, but Carroll's people kidnapped Weston for Joey's location. They had him for maybe half a day, interrogated him, drugged him. Agents died trying to get him out. It wasn't pretty, Ryan."  
  
"And you didn't think I could help."  
  
"You've made it _extremely_ clear you have no interest in helping, _Mister_ Hardy," Mendez said with suddenly open contempt, spurning Ryan's more official titles. "And since all you've done since this restarted is endanger my investigation, no, I didn't feel the personal need to keep you in the loop."  
  
When Ryan didn't respond, clearly making an effort to control his anger, Mendez's own anger seemed to crumble.  
  
"Weston will be back in a few days, I'm sure he'll fill you in like he always does. Just please, Ryan, step back from this, trust us with the leads we have. You used to be one of us. Remember?"  
  
"Where's Mike now?" Ryan asked, refusing to be distracted.  
  
"He's healing up in a hotel nearby, has a full-time protective detail. Come back in a few days, he'll bounce back fast." Ryan wanted to drill her with questions, about how secure the location was, how many men, but he bit his tongue. Now wasn't the time.  
  
"I should see him before that," he said, taking out his cellphone, "you got his number?"  
  
Mendez narrowed her eyes. "No. As far as you know, he's still undercover, and I didn't tell you any of this. He didn't want you to know, Hardy."  
  
"Damnit, Gina, do you want me to help the kid or not? I'm not waiting three days to ask how he's doing!"  
  
Mendez's scowl increased, but to Ryan's great satisfaction she deflated, motioning for Ryan to follow her around the corner. "Fine," she said when they were out of view behind some shrubs. "Honestly, all I can get out of him is 'I'm fine's.' Maybe you can find out how he is."  
  
Ryan snatched her phone as soon as she hit dial, ducking closer to the wall. Mendez didn't move and crossed her arms again, making it clear she wasn't leaving the call unattended, and Ryan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mike didn't pick up on the first ring, or the second, which had Ryan worrying just by itself, when he heard a click.

"Yeah," Mike said simply, voice muffled.  
  
"Hey Mike. Not Mendez, this is Ryan here." There was silence on the other end, leaving Ryan in the dark about Mike's reaction. "Look, I just...I just found out about the kidnapping, alright, nobody let me know," he said quietly. "Christ, buddy, why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Tell Mendez to go fuck herself," Mike snarled, and the call ended, leaving Ryan with his mouth agape. He glanced over at Mendez.  
  
"What'd he say?" she asked.  
  
Ryan just shook his head and handed her back the phone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ryan came to headquarters every day that week, waiting expectantly for Mike's re-appearance, but left disappointed each time. At least Mendez didn't seem to mind his hovering, so long as he seemed useful. He used the time to catch up on the kidnapping, and learned Mendez was right; it had been bloody, and confusing, and frankly he found it baffling the agency could botch something so badly.  
  
There wasn't much to go off; radio chatter and first-person accounts from SWAT mainly, and Ryan found himself obsessively studying the grainy footage of Mike being taken from his hotel parking lot, hoping for a lead. Several masked men had vanished him into a van with all the efficiency of a GRU kidnapping. To Ryan they looked military, which was hardly encouraging.  
  
It had been ten long hours before the Bureau had tracked the van with traffic cameras. Mike's retelling of that time was fairly straightforward; that three men and one woman had drugged him, terrorized him with mock executions, and demanded Joey's location.  
  
When the agents had found the cabin, they'd been too eager about rescuing one of their own. Three had gone in without waiting for backup, and three had died. The followers had scattered, and only after another hour had they found Mike half conscious and duck-taped in the trunk of a follower's car. The follower had been shot dead at the scene, something Ryan found himself wishing he'd been there to do it himself.  
  
After the weekend he finally found Mike in the bustle of task-force headquarters, recognizable by his jacket and hoody as he sat hunched in the corner with a laptop.  
  
Ryan tossed his coffee cup in the trash and started to walk over, briefly hesitating when Mike didn't turn his way.  
  
"Mike."  
  
"What," Mike muttered, finishing typing. He glanced up enough as if to confirm it was Ryan, and showing no expression, looked down again. "I'm not on point today, Ryan, if you have something go find Mendez."  
  
There were finger-shaped bruises on Mike's face, Ryan realized, then noticed Mike was now staring at him expectantly. Realizing he needed to say something, Ryan pulled up a chair to Mike's desk, leaning in closer.  
  
"I needed to see if you were ok, Mike," he said, not hiding how earnest he was.  
  
"You know how I am, knock me down, I'm up again." Mike's false cheer seemed numb, and he was analyzing Ryan's reaction with careful eyes. Ryan tried not to stare at the bruises; God, even after a week they looked bad. Like somehow had grabbed him one-handed on the neck and pushed him into the wall. Or the floor. Or a bed. Jesus. "My family's safe, I'm safe, it's all good," Mike was saying. "That why you're really here?"  
  
Ryan opened his mouth to respond, only to find himself speechless. Finally, "Ouch, Mike."  
  
"Yeah, well, seems the only time I've seen you this past year is when you need something," Mike said curtly, glancing back at his computer screen.  
  
Feeling like he'd been punched in the gut, Ryan sat back and frowned. He wanted to defend himself, say that he'd been grieving, that he couldn't handle both that and Mike's misplaced survivor's guilt, that he'd been corrupting Mike into something dark...but he bit it back. From Mike's perspective, none of those arguments would come off too well.

"Weston!" A smiling middle-aged agent was weaving their way, and Weston jolted when the man clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy to have you back, Mike."  
  
Mike smiled thinly, and as the two made small talk Ryan considered his next approach. So far this wasn't going how he wanted, even after taking Max's advice about being 'delicate' - he'd never seen Mike so frigid, and he hadn't exactly been on the young man's good side lately.  
  
When the agent finally left, Mike scrubbed a hand across his face in relief, giving Ryan an appraising look. "Look," Mike said before Ryan could speak, leaning forward, "it seems pretty obvious Mendez has you back in the loop. Anything you wanna know, it's in the files. Just ask her for it, save us both the trouble. The report's good, Ryan."  
  
 _Liar_ , Ryan thought to himself, and Mike's eyes narrowed, studying him. Ryan held his breath and kept quiet, waiting for Mike to go there himself; to save him the pain of asking. It didn't take long, because soon Mike was standing, staring down at Ryan in open anger.  
  
When Ryan got to his feet Mike grabbed his elbow and pulled him down the white-tiled hallway, past water coolers and bubbling coffee and copy machines. He was practically shoved into an empty conference room, Mike shutting the door behind them.  
  
"You read it, didn't you," Mike said furiously, right up in his face. "My medical report." Ryan didn't deny it, didn't affirm. "Jesus, Ryan, those are classified! You found those files on your own? Cause I know Mendez didn't give 'em to you."  
  
"On my own," Ryan said hurriedly, eager to keep Max out of it. "Good thing I did, or I never would've found out. Why didn't you tell me, Mike?"  
  
"Why would I have told you."  
  
The caustic simplicity of the response again left Ryan breathless. Because he 'wanted' to know? Because not knowing was worse? Because he would have helped? Would he have?  
  
Pushing those thoughts aside, he decided to take the plunge. "Ok. I know I'm crap with this stuff, so I'm just gonna say it straight. If something happened, Mikey, something you didn't tell the brass....look-"  
  
Mike actually looked amused, for a moment, and Ryan stopped in confusion. Almost like he'd been waiting for Ryan to make a misstep, Mike took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked at Ryan straight on.  
  
"I wouldn't sabotage evidence like that, I'm not hiding anything. I took a rape kit under a different name. The people who need to know, know."  
  
Ryan reeled from the confirmation. "Mike..." he started, trying to make up for his incoherence with emotion, and reached for Mike's shoulder. Mike violently shrugged his hand off and stepped back, making it clear he didn't want to be touched. "Woah," Ryan said, putting his hands up.

"You know, why don't we get back to the key issue here," Mike said, which is that you can't hack, so please tell me you aren't still roping Max into your vigilante bullshit, Ryan. You're gonna get her fired. That's not a possibility, that's a fact."  
  
"What, are you gonna turn her in?"  
  
"Me, no," Mike said, "but Mendez isn't a moron, don't you think she's gonna wonder how you found all this out? What makes you think she's on your side?"  
  
"Why the hell wouldn't she be, Mike?"  
  
At that Mike paused, staring with wide eyes. And Ryan knew, then, that he wasn't alone in his paranoia. Neither of them spoke for a moment, adjusting to the idea that their suspicion was mutual, and Ryan watched as Mike glanced towards agents walking by the window. He could see nervousness there. Fear. Couldn't feel good knowing a colleague might literally stab you in the back you at any moment.  
  
He moved in closer. "Until we know this place isn't compromised, it may not be safe," Ryan said urgently. "Maybe you should take more time off, get away for awhile - "  
  
"This is my job, I'm not going anywhere. Now are we done here?"  
  
Ryan felt beaten, his words useless, but he _knew_ Mike was wrong about avoiding this. He could tell Mike was on the verge of the breaking, could see the brittle anger and despair churning below the surface. He knew the feelings all too well himself.  
  
"We're done," Mike answered for him, giving Ryan a final look, and calmly walking for the door. Ryan's hands dropped to his sides in defeat as Mike disappeared into the hall.

 

 

It was starting to lightly mist half an hour later, while Ryan sat miserably in the driver's seat of Max's car, Max sitting impatiently next to him.  
  
They kept their eyes on the headquarters main entrance, Ryan hoping he'd catch a glimpse of Weston. Their conversation was anything but over, but so long as he didn't know where the man lived, it had to happen here.  
  
"You really think he might come out?" Max asked, letting her head thump against the head-rest.  
  
"He might, he was out of sorts. Not that I meant to, but..." he sighed. "I dunno, maybe he'll ask Mendez for the day off."  
  
"Maybe, she seems like a hardass to me - "  
  
"Yeah, but she's probably the one who let Mike stay out of the official report. I think she's looking out for him."  
  
Max raised slender eyebrows. "That or she's the leak."  
  
"Well aren't you the suspicious one," Ryan said jokingly, giving her a smile.  
  
She smirked. "Too many cop shows I guess. Hey, is that - " there was a knock on Ryan's window and he jumped, reaching for his gun before he saw it was Weston. Since Mike didn't move enough for him to open the door, he quickly lowered the glass. Mike bent down, barely sparing Max a glance. Reaching under his jacket, he dropped an envelope on Ryan's lap.  
  
Ryan stared at it, confused, until he realized what it probably was. "Jesus..."  
  
Mike nodded as if to confirm, meeting his gaze squarely. "Just do me a favor, Ryan, if you get a lead, don't do be dumb and get yourself hurt. And get your niece out of this clusterfuck before it gets worse," Mike said more loudly.  
  
"Not your business, Agent Weston," Max interjected, even though she almost sounded guilty for arguing.  
  
"Yes, it is, actually," Mike snapped back.  
  
"Mike, this isn't why I came here," Ryan said, not bothering to open the envelope.  
  
"Yeah, well, then sorry I couldn't be more help."  
  
Giving them both a final look for import, Mike straightened and starting walking back towards headquarters.  
  
"Mike, wait," Ryan said, getting out after him, but not before he heard Max mutter 'asshole' under her breath. As Ryan trotted to catch up, Mike stopped and glanced back.  
  
"You alright, Agent Weston?" someone called over, and Ryan saw two policemen approaching. His hand slipped incrementally towards his gun out of habit - uniforms no longer meant friend to him.  
  
"Just give me a minute," Mike called back. The cops didn't go far, loitering among the cars and eyeballing Ryan.  
  
"Protective detail?" Ryan asked. Mike nodded, and his eyes were getting tired. "Hey, why wouldn't you talk to me? Let me come over?"  
  
"Why? So Joe's people could trace you there, maybe slice the throats of the beat cops watching the front door?"  
  
"I'm trying to be a friend here, Mike," Ryan said desperately, trying to make something of the situation, but it was too late.  
  
Mike was shaking his head, eyes dashed with water as he stared Ryan down. "Look, I know you're trying to help, I just...I can't right now. I got too much on my plate, alright?" The look said it all - it was pleading, demanding Ryan let it drop.  
  
Ryan deflated, frustrated. "At least take this," he said, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. "It's not a burner. Call me sometime." It was a small triumph to Ryan that Mike let him slip it in his hand before they parted ways.

 

 

The minute Mike was inside he went straight for the conference room again, shutting the door and putting his back against it, not minding that the room was dim. He needed somewhere to let the shaking stop without prying eyes.

Coming into work today had taken an embarrassing amount of resolve, and it had been nearly as bad as he'd feared. Every glance had put him on edge, every sympathetic, pitying look from his superior officers had made his blood boil. At least the interaction he'd most been dreading was over. He closed his eyes as he tried to slow his breathing. He'd gotten through Hardy's interrogation without breaking down once, hadn't ranted, hadn't gotten emotional or petty. Well, not too much.

It wasn't so much that he feared sympathy from the man, but what might came after. First there would be a hug, a smile, a clap on the back, and then there would be nothing. Hardy would be gone, again, leaving Mike alone with his confusion and bitter resentment, which at this rate was bound to turn into hate. And he knew Ryan didn't deserve that.

Better just to avoid him, which today only affirmed. Hopefully Hardy would get the message, and leave him the hell alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Discontinued for now, someone else is free to have a go at the prompt.


End file.
